


What Lies Beneath

by marginalcovert



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Abuse, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Games, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 18:00:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalcovert/pseuds/marginalcovert
Summary: It is Watson, has only ever been Watson, who controls Holmes' perception of sex. For a Dark!Watson prompt on the LJ kinkmeme.





	What Lies Beneath

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt, filled April 2010:  
_Dark!Watson gets off on controlling Holmes's perceptions of sex, since Holmes has no basis for comparison. Everytime Holmes feels pain during sex, can't come, etc., Watson says with surprise it must be Holmes's fault. In reality watson knows exactly what he's doing to Holmes. Watson progresses from being concerned to frustrated that Holmes is "ruining" the experience for them._  
_Also, Holmes is virtually too sensitive to be touched after coming and Watson regularly takes advantage of it._

It is not easy keeping his thrusts shallow, but Watson knows how he wants this night to go, so he continues.  
  
Holmes, as he has swiftly learned to become during these times, is quiet. Despite the fact that his body is currently stretched around Watson's shaft, and his own held firmly in the doctor's hand, Holmes' focus is riveted to Watson's face, alert to any hint of disappointment. The attention is gratifying - something Watson has cultivated, even - but Watson will soon give him more than enough to occupy him.  
  
"Your timing leaves something to be desired," Watson tells him. He rubs his thumb idly over the tip, and Holmes' breath catches; Watson would wager that his reaction is equally as due to the sensation as to the disapproval in Watson's expression. "Holmes, all I ask is that we reach completion together. Is that unreasonable?"  
  
Holmes shakes his head.  
  
"Too many times I have had to wait for you. On occasion," and Watson allows a note of uncertainty to slip into his voice, "you cannot even finish. I wonder, sometimes, if you are taking this seriously at all."  
  
Holmes' dark eyes widen. "I do." He seems as though he would say more, but Watson chooses that moment to slide his hand, beginning an even pumping, and Holmes is reduced to saying only, "I am trying - you must believe me."  
  
"Mmmm." He laces the sound with ambivalence, sufficient to bring a wash of increasingly-familiar despair over Holmes' face. Watson begins pumping him in earnest, his own movements within Holmes remaining unhurried.  
  
Holmes' gaze is narrowed in concentration. He _is_ trying, but he is also _thinking_, adjusting himself to the fit and feel of Watson's hand, and Watson cannot have that. So he deliberately breaks the rhythm, presses Holmes' legs wider apart, alters angle and motion without pattern or warning.  
  
It works, and the detective sinks back into the bed; and Watson fancies he can pinpoint the exact instant concentration gives way to reaction, Holmes' mouth falling open to gulp for air.  
  
Watson works him faster, loosening the pressure at the base and closing again as he tugs upward, feeling the pulse beneath the skin throbbing much more rapidly than his own. His other hand strays lower to fondle Holmes' sac, and then lower still to graze the skin behind it - and Holmes is suddenly tightening underneath him, reaching for Watson's wrists with something akin to panic. "Wait - " Holmes chokes, but it is too late; Watson gives him a final, calculated squeeze and Holmes is undone, shuddering and bucking as he comes.  
  
Watson waits until Holmes pants his name before wordlessly releasing him. He lets the silence hit hard, and Holmes gropes for his knee, caresses it in awkward apology.  
  
"Watson - I am so sorry - "  
  
"Now you have decided not to wait for me," Watson says tightly.  
  
Holmes covers his eyes with one hand, but it does not hide the flush of shame. "I did not mean to - I tried - "  
  
"Let me see your face." Watson does not raise his voice. "You know that I always want to see your face, whenever we are in bed."  
  
Holmes complies but does not meet his gaze, staring instead at the embossed ceiling tiles overhead, chest still heaving. Unshielded, it is all too obvious when those dark eyes grow too liquid, although Holmes blinks and no liquid falls. The sight is irresistible and Watson bends to kiss him. Holmes' mouth is passive and Holmes seemingly remains collected, but Watson can feel him swallowing hard.   
  
The detective looks bereft as Watson straightens back up. "Watson, I tried - "  
  
Watson's lips thin. "You tried only for yourself." He grabs the spent shaft and Holmes flinches almost violently at the contact. He knows Holmes can hardly bear to be touched after climax, his nerves over-sensitised, and this is an infinitely useful fact.  
  
Watson lets go and begins to move again. "Whether you wait for me or not, _I_ still need to finish. You do not begrudge me that, at least?"  
  
Holmes hesitates, then has hardly finished shaking his head before Watson shifts his angle, purposefully scraping himself across Holmes' prostate and Holmes writhes under the onslaught of pleasure, overcome.  
  
"It's too much - " Holmes gasps. "Too much - "  
  
"You," Watson says in disbelief, "want me to stop. _Now?_"  
  
"S-something else," Holmes stammers. "My hands - my mouth - "  
  
"You ask me to trade _this_ \- " Watson jerks his hips sharply, wringing another gasp from Holmes, "in the midst of it, for a lesser substitute? Do you have any idea how this feels? You cannot treat me so, Holmes. You cannot."  
  
Holmes clamps his mouth shut, only grunting through the next few thrusts. Until Watson intensifies the rhythm, and Holmes thrashes, reaching unsteadily for him.  
  
"Watson..." One of Holmes' palms is at Watson's chest, stopping just short of actually pushing him away. "Please, n-not so quickly..."  
  
This was not part of his original plan, but it is an excellent idea, and Watson is nothing if not adaptable. Gritting his teeth, he instantly checks the forward snap of his pelvis, transmuting the movement into a slow, tortuous slide instead. It costs him, leaving sweat dripping from his brow but it is absolutely worth it when the detective practically _convulses_ beneath him, wracked by the protracted stimulation.   
  
"Oh _God_," Holmes groans, and his mouth starts to form the word _no_ when Watson punches the breath from his lungs with the start of his next thrust. This one is even slower than the last, and he watches as Holmes' hands scrabble futilely at the too-smooth linen stretched over the mattress, unable to find purchase. The loose sheets have all been pushed down to the foot of the bed, and he does not even have the luxury of a pillowcase to twist his fingers in; Watson is rather pleased with this side benefit of having shoved the only pillow beneath Holmes' hips earlier. Blunt nails scrape over the headboard, a solid slab of carved oak that provides no handholds. Watson has to duck his head to hide the smile.  
  
Holmes is shaking with the effort of holding himself still for Watson, and only partially succeeding. Watson's thighs are beginning to ache from maintaining this pace. He digs his teeth into his lower lip and pulls nearly all the way out, dragging his length over that one spot inside and is rewarded by the wild, erratic clenching of Holmes' muscles around him. The sensation is thoroughly, unimaginably delicious.  
  
He loves bringing Holmes to this state, loves knowing _he_ is the one to do it. He has seen it before, on those nights when Holmes seeks out the splintering hardwood walls of the Punchbowl and lets himself cease thinking, lets himself become lost in instinct and reflex and the primal trading of blows and pain. He has seen Holmes' dark eyes alight; has seen the mantle of the great detective fall away to reveal the man at the core, breathless and raw.  
  
It won't do, that there are so many others there to witness it also - the anonymous crowds, the parade of nameless opponents. It won't do, that Holmes is willing to share that side of himself with an arena full of strangers.  
  
Here, in this new arena of cotton sheets and feather mattresses, Holmes is still expected to fight, still expected to be stripped raw - only here, his opponent is no one but himself. Watson has made sure of it. He pushes back in, excruciatingly slow, just to see it: Holmes utters a high-pitched whimper and just as his control snaps and he twists himself up off Watson's cock, Watson leans forward to murmur, "So good..." and Holmes comes to a trembling halt, battling his own instincts to escape. It's there for Watson to see in the way his pectorals and biceps stand out in stark, glistening relief, in the way his knuckles turn white.   
  
So good indeed.  
  
He draws it out for another prolonged stroke, another two, until Holmes' neck arches back and Holmes' hands fist themselves in his own hair for lack of anything else to hold on to, and then - oh, then - because Watson has his limits, too, he speeds his thrusts again, this time intent on his own completion. The slap of flesh against flesh mingles in synchronization with the small, broken sounds issuing from Holmes' throat and Watson bends low to press his lips to the sweat-dampened skin, just to feel those tiny vibrations pass through him. It triggers a spike of lust, heat like an imminent clap of thunder. He levers himself up far enough to reach between them and harshly brush Holmes' forced half-hardness between thumb and forefinger, and then it is Holmes' hitching cry that sends him powerfully over the edge as he spills hotly into the body trapped beneath.  
  
He gives himself several long moments to catch his breath before withdrawing, and does not miss Holmes' wince when he does so. He rolls off and stretches out languidly on the mattress alongside Holmes, gathering the man to him, reveling in the tremors that have only just now begun to abate, in the trip-hammer pounding of that heart.  
  
It is useful to be solicitous now, and Watson carefully avoids touching him more than necessary, only circling arms around his shoulder and waist, pressing kisses to cheek and jaw. "There, was that so difficult?" Watson whispers, and before Holmes can reply he adds, "I believe you are managing to improve. I can say with surety that toward the end, I may have even enjoyed it."  
  
When Holmes seems lost for words, Watson kisses him reassuringly on the temple and says, "Sleep now. We will try again, later."  
  
Holmes only shivers; but Watson, as he drifts into sated slumber, feels quite warm.


End file.
